The Wank Sock

I’m currently spending a lot of my time “down the Rabbit Hole” in a local squat-come-supported housing where I’m pretending to research a novel but actually have developed an inexplicable crush on an unobtainable and menacingly dangerous woman. Isn’t it amazing what a good woman can do to you? I’ve been sucked up in to her whirlwind of a life where time has no meaning and no one is a grown up. Well done, brain.

There are four core tenants of this house, although this doesn’t stop the swarms of up to 20 people who linger in and out at any time of day, using drugs I didn’t know existed and refusing to retain a concept of real life. They “shift sleep” on the floor with no room out of bounds to anyone and up to five in a bed. Please note – Bedsheets are a novelty. We sleep on the bare mattress here. At any one time there can be at least eight people found “partying” together, an entity which seemingly never ends. No one has jobs because that would mean conforming and this is bad.

Amongst the many things that have amazed and disgusted me here was the sock in the shower. Five days I looked at it and wondered why no one was moving it? Whose sock is this? Why is it there? Is it like the spatula planted in the garden that’s there for a significant reason (a dead friends’ memorial) or do we really just leave socks in the shower here?

It’s a wanking sock. A shower wank sock. That’s why it’s in a slightly different place each day…

Clearly “let’s rinse out the shower” is too mainstream, and this is the solution a group of drug addled room-mates came up with to stop arguing. A wank sock.

Realising I was outnumbered when it came to reasonable logic, I decided it may be best not to touch anything any more. I have currently commandeered the only mug in the house of a reasonable size and decent state and am stubbornly chain drinking tea from it, lest it be lost to its new life as an ashtray. Although apparently anything can be an ashtray. Shall I give you a Listicle?

A Glass,

The Floor,

Cleverly Manipulated Tin Foil,

All Cans,

Lids, Any Lid,

My Handbag (grrr),

Used Candles,

In-Use Candles,

Beer Bottles,

“Chuck It Out The Window!”

Sinks,

THE KETTLE (That’s OK, when you boil water everything disintegrates, it’s like a science fact and that.”)

The Floor Again

In fact this is one of many Listicles I could give you including Things Society Tries To do To Keep Us In Boxes and Conspiracy Theories (God damn that illuminati). Slurring appears to be the enforced code of conduct and drink driving is apparently an hilarious joke.

After five days down the Rabbit Hole, I have emerged, scrubbed myself clean and said a prayer to whoever the hell I needed to (I learned a lot over the last few days about the binding and oppressive convention of “religion”) and can only hope that I have not contracted the HPV virus. The people I have encountered over the last week are fascinating and terrifying in equal measure and, although I don’t think I’ll be taking the blue pill again, I most certainly will count this as one of the most interesting weeks of my life. Maybe I should stick to dating grown ups, eh? And if nothing else, at least I’ve made some dangerous new friends.

About the Author: E J Rosetta is an LGBT Columnist and coffee addict living in Hampshire with her spoiled cat, Hendricks. More ramblings can be found at www.facebook.com/ejrosettaLGBTor via Twitter @EJRosetta